EPTEMBER 11, 1985:
I have to keep walking. To stop
means to freeze, to die. The sun has
set and taken all warmthfrom the
earth with it. The burningsensation on the
tips of my ears, the numb needlingpain in
my toes tell me the temperatureis well be
low zero. MOVE, Sorrel-WALK!
On and on .... The god of night wraps
me in sequined black velvet, a sky cloak of
diamonds. I am too cold to appreciatethe
resplendence of these stars, too delirious to
comprehend the speed with which so many
shatter-andfall. Cardboardcutout moun
tains surroundme. I am alone.
To trek across Tibet had been a dream.
Now it has become a nightmare, complete
with apparitions,voices, tormenting me
with thoughts of eternity. To combat
fear, I talk continuously to my camera.
I must not stop moving; I have no shel
ter, no source of heat except movement.
Distantlights lure me beyond the limits
of conscious will. Shivering, I stagger
toward them, through a marketplace and
766
up to a single lighted window. I pound my
fists on a heavy wooden door. Let me in,
please let me in! The door opens. I have
walked 40 miles in 23 hours. Exhaustion
melts andfalls as tears. It's all right,
I'm safe.
THUS MY DIARY records my arrival in Ali, a
city on the western edge of Tibet's northern
plateau, the Chang Thang. At that point I
was three weeks and 300 miles into my jour
ney across Tibet, which had begun at the
town of Burang near the Nepalese border.
My goal was Lhasa, Tibet's capital, a 1,500
mile trek to the east.
I had miscalculated badly on the stretch
just before Ali, venturing into an uninhabit
ed region and allowing myself to be caught
at sundown with many miles still to go to the
nearest shelter. I was lucky to have reached
Ali-and to be alive.
I was not a total stranger to Tibet. The
year before, I had visited this long
forbidden land as part of a 10,000-mile solo
bike ride across Asia. The trip had been a
NationalGeographic,December 1987